madness is the flick of a wrist
by moogleizer
Summary: Izaya remembers a fateful stroll he once took through the city he loves. Is he insane? He certainly doesn't think so. One-shot character study.


**moog****: Ahhhh, Izaya fascinates me to no end. This piece was largely inspired by the writing of Virginia Woolf, whose writing romances me like nothing else.**

**Disclaimer****: I have no claim to Durarara! or any of its characters.**

* * *

And why?

There was a point it carried over, he was sure. But when? Not that he was very given to self-reflection. After all, the goal wasn't _him_; it was other people. But every now and then, when the office was silent and a swathe of papers obscured the desk from view, when the dusk light angled in across the floor just so and the dust mites—there were always dust mites, no matter how much dusting you did—when the dust mites glittered like a tiny galaxy…well, he looked inward then. In those moments, the tireless pen went down. The narrow spectacles came off. His pupils dilated—he felt them dilate, a distinct pressure in the eyes and a momentary blindness—in the half-light. In those moments the eager pulse of his heart thrummed against his lungs, against the sides of his throat and in the soft inner curves of his wrists. In those moments, the air put its whole weight upon his skin, and the burden—the blessing—of breath cooled his heavy tongue.

But who was he to use a word like "blessing"? What was a "burden" to him?

Wondering this, he would laugh—and turn his hazy gaze outward, upon the shadowed face of humanity. Things were a little clearer out there.

To exist—what a thrill! And that leisurely pumping heart would burn. The natural flow of breath shortened. His blood rushed so quickly through his veins that it tickled him. This was what it meant to be alive.

More than that, being alive was sharing the world with other humans. What greater work of art was there than a human being? What creature more perfect? What raw gem more precious, though flawed? Nothing so one-dimensional. Nothing so multifaceted.

At the edge of boredom, at the rim of fascination, the city shone. A landscape dulled by its brightness. Light that caught in the pupils never left. Thrilling. _Thrilling_.

But the dark places, those were even more thrilling. The places light didn't, or wouldn't, reach. Places people thought no eyes watched. That was where the real jewels hid. Those secret places.

The internet was a marvelous creation for that reason. People sold their souls to the internet, and Izaya Orihara was there to buy. Every complaint mattered to him. Every threat, every jubilation, was a private treasure. But people tried too furiously to guard their secrets. Izaya had to prod them a little to get them to show him what he wanted to see. He had to pry this edge, apply pressure to that surface fracture, bring out the friction between stones that seemed so smooth. It wasn't his fault if some people took his interest the wrong way.

It took his breath away, though, all of it. Truly, it did. For how could anyone look upon humanity without wanting to hold it in his hand? How could anyone see it, catch the glint of it in his eye, and yet resist the urge to fondle it? To have such control shook him to his deepest roots in ways he'd have been hard-put to describe. It was the shiver of intimacy. It was love.

Dusk peeled back from the office floor, a wave of almond-gold receding. It reminded him of something, that color. Honeycombs and bees, maybe. Yellow hair, stop signs and cigarettes, maybe. The shy shadow of a pierced yet infantile ear…Perhaps. Either way it moved him—with admiration, with fascination, with disgust. Dusk lingered over the man in the desk chair, caught his laugh—how seraphic!—and, once it was through with him, crawled backwards on its fading face down the side of the building. Izaya watched the last of it pour out. His hand twitched, as if just about to reach out and seize the tail of the fleeing glow, before recognizing at the last moment the futility of the endeavor and so going still.

A new feeling stole over him then. In that darkness, alone with himself and the morbidly beautiful head that decorated his desk, in the weight of that silence, his skin crawled.

_One day_, he thought—here reaching out, taking up the head (oddly sweet-smelling) and staring into its serene face—_one day this will end._

Not just his own life, but all lives. All things that were, bit by bit in their own time, in their own way, ceased to be. Even the Dullahan, he was sure, was not eternal (though a small part of him that he ignored hoped, fervently hoped, that she was—for who was he to deny the lure of immortality?).

The beauty of people was not, he knew, their transience. On the contrary, once dead, humans ceased to be of any value whatever. No. The beauty of humans was in their living moments—the timbre of a lying voice; the subtle tremble of a furious lip; the glassy sheen of eyes that have lost everything, everything.

_Thrilling_.

How droll that it was all contained in an hourglass. Grain by grain, time slipped through mortal fingers.

This was the source of the crawling that made him toss the fairy head into the air—toss, catch, toss, catch, toss. This was the source of the itching that, one night (years ago, but not so many years that he couldn't remember; maybe even more recently than he would have liked) pulled him to his feet, slung his arms into his jacket, and beckoned him into the night air.

This was as close to self-reflection as he ever came.

That night—darker than usual, roads and sidewalks slick from light rain—that night the buzz saw drone of his boredom was at a peak. As soon as he stepped outside, the silence in his skull was replaced by the steady, chaotic hum he so adored. All around him, it hummed. In the cars hissing, honking, screeching, it hummed; in cell phones ringing, people laughing, shouting, whining; in footsteps clicking against cement; in store bells jangling; in the homeless man coughing; everywhere; it hummed. Humanity. Life. The hunting ground.

Izaya Orihara breathed it in.

Strictly speaking, Izaya didn't care whether or not people understood him—at the intersection, he recalled, life overwhelmed him; he began to skip—although there were certain people who, at one point in time, had tried very hard to. Celty was one of them. Then again, to her, perhaps, all humans were the same—fragile. At least, more fragile than her. (What, after all, could kill a Dullahan? Grinning, Izaya ran his tongue across the back of his teeth). He found it fascinating that, although she wasn't human, Celty Sturluson had the most humanity in her of anyone Izaya knew. He could count on her to be a hero almost every time.

Ikebukuro loomed before him, as it had before, as it would many, many times more. His belly flipped, as it would had he caught sight of a lover. And his lover beckoned. Finally, the thick of it. The culmination of the hum.

Izaya made binoculars of his hands and scanned the evening crowd. He trilled as he searched—for a general _someone_, not anyone in particular—never anyone in particular—"I…see…you!"

He spotted a young couple as through a tunnel. At first glance they seemed quite at their ease; she leaning against his arm, he laughing at something she just said. To Izaya's eye, though, there was something furtive about the girl's movements. Perhaps it was the way she lead their walk—she pulled her companion along, as if they couldn't move fast enough; perhaps it was the way she cast her gaze around too frequently, too carefully; or perhaps—and most interestingly—it was the way she clutched her white shoulder bag tightly against her side.

Izaya's right hand came level with his eye. His thumb came up, and his index finger pointed straight out.

"Bang!"

With the casual grace of one out for a stroll, Izaya fell into step behind his target. It was lucky for him that he had such a normal face. Nobody—unless they knew him—looked twice at him. That his voice was equal parts friendly and soothing was only a bonus. While he wasn't given to vanity, Izaya was well aware of his physical attributes and how to use them to his advantage.

Ahead, the couple stopped. Izaya paused to admire coats on display in a shop window. The young man whispered something to his companion—upon closer inspection, Izaya recognized a certain flippancy to the young man's smile, and an over-fostered arrogance in his eyes—and then trundled into the small coffee shop—alone. He _was_ a trundler, too; there was no other word for it. His movements were slow, half-formed, midway between a saunter and a stumble. The girl seemed to recognize this. Izaya turned in time to catch the annoyed twitch of her lip.

"It's cold out here," he commented (his dark eyes, seemingly, remained fixed on the shop window; did he see his reflection there? He couldn't remember, but he's pretty sure the answer is no. There was something else…). "Aren't you going in with your boyfriend?"

Rather than answering, the girl clutched tight the strap of her shoulder bag. Her jaw clenched. Her supple mouth curled downwards. At the edge of the mouth, the dark thing Izaya sought. His heart in his throat now, near to bursting now, he ambled up to her.

In an instant the girl's hand flew into the mouth of her bag. The black hilt of a gun, glossy in the sickly street light, glinted between her small fingers. Izaya caught her wrist with a deft sweep of his hand before she could reveal the weapon to the world. Before she could scream, he leaned in close. Her youthful skin, so smooth, so warm. Heat radiated from the flesh of her throat and caressed his cheek. Her heart, or so it seemed, beat almost in tandem with his—straining, bursting.

"It's okay," he whispered, his voice a low purr. "I know. I understand."

He leaned back again, smiling. Her eyes—wide, glittering, black as a fawn's—appraised him. Only he could see the ugly thing behind the curls, behind the pink lipstick, behind the hint of bubblegum and lavender bath soap. Only he could see the rage, the envy, squeezing the life out of her like an engorged snake. He saw, and he accepted.

_Come to me as you are_, his smile urged. _I'll take you, even if no one else will. I know you. I see how ugly you are. I know._

And the best part—the very best—the part that tickled him until he could laugh enough to puke—the best part was that she smiled back.

The black-eyed-lavender-scented vixen spread her rosy lips into a slow, relieved smile. Rather than resenting Izaya for clutching at the darkness in her heart, rather than running from him as fast and as far as she could go, the dumb bitch was grateful! To him! To Izaya Orihara! At that point he could have had his hand around her throat and she would have thanked him. That was how badly people wanted their suffering to be acknowledged. That was how desperately they wanted attention—it didn't matter what kind.

How pathetic. How _thrilling_.

The pounding of his heart was almost enough to choke him; that he remembered more clearly than anything else.

"We'll show him what he's been neglecting," Izaya said, and he grazed his lips across the girl's soft, warm cheek. Her breath, his breath, both even. Their hearts, same rhythm.

How long ago was that? Not so long that he didn't remember thinking that she wouldn't have done it. Not so long that he didn't remember thinking that, if not for his acknowledging her, if not for his kissing her, she would have gone on with her meek and miserable existence until she was another droll face with no substance—a shadow—a nonentity. But Izaya had put her on another path. Izaya had given her that last strain of certainty upon which all murderers built their resolve; he gave her a sense of righteousness. His approval—the approval of an absolute stranger, but what did that matter?—his approval made her judge herself _correct_. Killing was _okay_, it was _justified_. And why not? What difference was killing a hateful lover from killing a criminal? Izaya had saved her from purposelessness; after all, she'd taken control of her life. Not to mention she'd provided him with some small measure of entertainment. For that, she should be grateful. For that, she should love him.

That was what he thought.

At last, standing in the street, watching the young couple depart arm and arm to their last stand, he let laughter sweep over him like his whole life force pouring from his mouth.

* * *

What did it mean that he let people die, knowing full well he could save them? He asked the fairy head on occasion—toss, catch, toss, catch—his reflection in the office window on occasion—(not his own face, but something else…)—other people, never. He never considered involving anyone else in his personal queries, for they were second nature questions, backburner thoughts he hardly noticed yet that were somehow always there. Not that this bothered him—knowing he let people die—but sometimes he wondered. He did save _some_ people; the interesting ones, the useful ones. For the most part, though, if humans were bent on destroying themselves, why stop them? It was a mystery to him—what drove people to self-destruction. Likely they would have destroyed themselves at some point anyway, regardless of whether or not he got involved. But not getting involved was out of the question. What was the fun of that? Humanity beckoned to him. How could he ignore it?

Some—many—called him mad, but what they didn't realize was that madness was the flick of a wrist. It was in the small things, the ordinary things. That's where the extraordinary happened.

And why?

Because all people, at their vile cores, nurtured the seed of madness. All people tried to hide it, layered it with reason and conceit, but if carefully watered, madness bloomed. It was salvation.

It was thrilling; thrilling!

Izaya wasn't crazy. It amused him to consider that some people thought he was. They would likely find it difficult to accept how lucid he really was, how _satisfying_ his work—and his hobby—was to him. But he didn't feel the need to be forgiven, or understood, by anyone. He hardly thought of it, in fact—except in the rare moments when he thought of_her_.

"Hello," said the little murderess. That was how she introduced herself to him, after the fact. "Hello."

How long ago had that been? At that time the dusk light angled in on her shorn curls—straight now, short, ends brushing her jaw and the nape of her neck—and the light touched her bare lips, burned like dim coals in her poisonous, fawn-like eyes.

"How bold of you," Izaya drawled, "to take a life and then come to me, the one person in the world who knows you're responsible. Pretty bad taste, actually. I hope you don't think I'm going to help you. It's your mess; you have to deal with it."

He wasn't smiling then. The girl was. She shook her head, once. The feathered ends of her hair fluttered like bird wings.

"Nothing like that," she said, with the voice of a self-assured mouse. "I wanted to see you, that's all. I wanted to thank you. You saved me, you know, from that guy. From myself. I didn't think anyone cared so much. I was very touched."

It didn't matter what "that guy"—her doomed companion, the murdered lover—had done (the girl didn't say and Izaya didn't ask). It didn't even matter that, contrary to Izaya's expectations, she hadn't taken her own life as well. Her misunderstanding, that's what mattered. It was her misunderstanding that made Izaya chuckle.

"How arrogant! I didn't do a thing for you, you know. To be honest, you disgust me. You're nothing but a leech. You rely on other people's strength and approval to get by. That's what you showed me that night; how hideous you are. Don't mistake my momentary interest in your story for affection. It was fun, but I don't care about you at all."

"Of course I know _that_."

A rush of blood. Heart seizing. Breath caught fast.

The murderess locked her hands behind her back. Her smile widened. The dusk light fled from her, leaving her doll-face in shadow. Something threatening loomed in her frail silhouette…

But no, Izaya would never allow himself to feel threatened by a _child_. Except that there was a part of her, embodied, almost, by the shadow of her, that was not childish at all. It was that part, however small it was, that made Izaya uncomfortable.

"Someone like you wouldn't care personally about someone like me," she said, cutting into his thoughts. "That much is obvious."

Her voice was so soft now that if not for the utter stillness of the air, he might not have heard her.

"You saw me that night," she went on, "the real me. But you see, I saw you, too. I didn't understand at first, when you spoke to me. I was going to kill myself after dealing with _him_—I think you knew that—and when you called out I thought you were trying to stop me. But then I realized…I saw someone who takes an interest in what's hidden, in what's dark. Someone who loves people not because they're perfect, or inspiring, but because they're so ugly. They're so ugly it's surprising, and you find value in that. You made me see the value in it, too. The value in myself. I had to meet you again. I had to be near you. So I searched and searched, and I found you, Izaya Orihara. And I would do anything for you. Anything at all."

All natural light was gone then, leaving the office entombed in fluorescent semi-darkness. Izaya gazed long upon the girl's silhouette—and even that was hard to see; it seemed to flutter, like a sheet of black water—and the longer he stared at her shape in the darkness, the hotter his hatred burned. There was something else, though, beneath his discomfort. It was intrigue. He wanted to see just how far she was willing to go for him, how deeply her devotion ran.

It was so long ago. He barely remembered it, almost never thought of it, but every now and then, when the silence of the office—or of his own thoughts—was too heavy, or when he spotted her from a distance, caught those flickering fawn-eyes; his mind would go back.

Her name was Saki Mikajima. And she was beautiful.

**~FIN~**


End file.
